Beyond the metal detector, the museum’s front door beckoned. For half a second, Ray imagined what it would be like to keep going. Walk into the night, get in his truck, and drive, baby, drive.
The lines from the Dylan song reverbed in his head: with no direction home. Like a complete unknown. Like a rolling stone.
Soon he’d make his plans. Pack his bags. Clip the guide wires and float free.
Tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the day after that. Soon.
He nodded at the uniformed officer manning the security station, and they all passed through. The little group planted itself just inside the museum’s front door and waited.
Exterior lights illuminated the center’s imposing front entrance. A columned portico. A slope of long, graceful steps. At the bottom, a black limousine was disgorging four people.
Beyond the four, the distant crowd still seethed. Fisted arms shook in the air and ugly, twisted mouths shouted slogans Ray couldn’t hear. He could hardly blame them for being incensed. Gillian Gray and her friends could call it art, but the photographs he’d seen were rightly labeled obscene, and if it had been up to him, they’d meet the woodpile. All of them. With a nice hot flame. No one but his former colleagues in homicide should have to look at those nightmares.
But it wasn’t up to him. He was no art expert; he was simply the guy who would escort Ms. Gray and her entourage to her party, then stand around while they ate stuffed mushrooms and drank champagne until they all got back in that limo and drove away to her granddaddy’s mansion.
Away. Far away.
The words played in his head as he watched the four ascend, the patriarch in front.
Although he was past seventy, Charles “Chip” Gray still had a broad, ex-footballer’s frame, though golf carts and country-club meals had turned it into paunch. Red-faced and huffing, he blocked Ray’s view of Gillian and her companion. Chip’s wife, Genevra, held his arm with one hand while the other clutched closed her silver fur as though it were armor. Ray knew who they were because most people in Nashville knew who they were. The Grays were local royalty, founders of an insurance conglomerate worth billions. Their name graced the front of the museum they were climbing toward.
The Gray Visual Arts Center was a cultural landmark for Nashville. For years the arts community had lobbied for an art museum of national standing. The Gray millions had finally made it possible, and a year ago the museum had opened to great fanfare. What better way to celebrate than to bring one of their own back for the first anniversary festivities?
He shot a sideways glance at the museum rep—what was his name? William? No, Wilson. Had it been his idea to bring Gillian Gray back to town? He’d bet Willy boy was regretting it now.
The group below hadn’t gone five steps when the swarm attacked. Swelled with national press and tabloids, a herd of reporters and paparazzi descended from both sides, surrounding the Grays. Now he couldn’t see any of them.
One glance at Carlson, and they both burst through the doors and raced down the steps. Elbowed to get through. Voices screamed questions as they got closer.
“Given community anger, will you withdraw from the exhibit?”
“How do you feel about public reaction to your work?”
A sea of faces, voices, and microphones buffeted the group. Cameras flashed, and the lights of news cameras shone in their eyes.
“Gentlemen! Ladies! Let us through!” Chip Gray pushed relentlessly through the thick sea of bodies and dismembered voices.
“Does your work contribute to violence?”
“Are you violent yourself?”
“Don’t respond,” Genevra Gray said. “Don’t say a word. Just one foot in front of the other. Forward.”
“Do you expect the museum to cancel the show?”
“What will you do if the museum cancels?”
Ray reached them first. He pulled the elder Grays through and handed them to Carlson, who threaded a path for them. Chip and Genevra plowed through, and Ray caught his first glimpse of their granddaughter alongside a tall, black-haired woman.
If he had to pick which of the two was the photographer, he would have guessed the dark one. There was an amused, cynical cast to her long, witchy face. It was a hard face, with a tough, brittle beauty that seemed more capable of handling a corpse than her companion’s.
But the brunette wasn’t the main attraction in the photographs. All the victims were incarnations of the angelic blonde beside her. And it was the angel, the small, slight angel, whose work was mounted on the museum’s walls and whose name was reviled by the protesters below.
The night was cool, but Gillian Gray wore no coat or shawl. No mink stole of any kind.
Only a pale violet dress that skimmed her shoulders and floated down her arms, as delicate as the dead child she pretended to be in the photo. She was older than the photograph; then again, she would be—she wasn’t pretending to be a schoolgirl now.
And yet her adult face and body had the same fragility as the dead girl’s. Wispy fair hair piled on her head. Big eyes that stared out from an elfin face with childlike innocence.
If Ray had let them, they would have pulled him in like her photographs. But he didn’t. He zeroed in on her. Linked an arm around her shoulder and another around the black-haired one. Pushed through. The pack continued shouting questions.
“You found your mother in the kitchen. Is that why you like kitchens?”
“Are you obsessed with death?”
“Ever killed anyone?”
“Let’s go,” Ray said, shoving the two women through.
“If they found him, what would you say to the man who killed your mother?”
He felt Gillian stiffen.
“Not now.” He tightened his grip on her. “Keep moving.”
But like a barge hitting ice, she ground to a halt. Turned back. “What would I say?”
The pack of reporters leaped closer, mad dogs salivating over the sound bite. They jostled Ray, and he swayed but didn’t let go of the women.
“What would you tell your mother’s murderer?” another reporter shouted.
Ray tensed, braced to keep his stance. Kept a roving gaze on the encroaching crowd. The last thing he needed was an incident before she even got inside the museum.
But the blonde didn’t seem to care. “What would I tell my mother’s killer?” She smiled sweetly as the pack closed in. “I’d tell him to come and get me.”
4
Ray couldn’t believe it. If she wanted to set them off, Gillian Gray couldn’t have given a better response. Follow-up questions came so fast they blended together in a screeching, shouted racket.
Gillian swiveled to face the museum entrance again, a poised, confident move. No helpless little girl here. “I’m ready now,” she said, and without his help, shoved her way through, leaving the mob screaming behind her.
Ray was sweating beneath his bow tie by the time they reached the door, but the woman beside him seemed revved up, excited. As if she’d faced down a challenge and won. There was a sharpness in her eyes as she greeted Davenport, who met them inside.
“Are you all right?” He took her arm. “Wilson Davenport, the museum’s director.”
“Ah.” Gillian’s smile could have cut glass. “The money man.”
Will escorted her into the museum’s foyer. “I am so sorry about all that outside.”
“Oh, don’t bother, Will.” Chip eyed his granddaughter balefully. “She likes being in the thick of things.” He shrugged out of his topcoat and dumped it on Will. “My God, a bunch of rabble.”
“Never mind.” Genevra Gray turned her back with a steely-eyed look and waited for Chip to take her fur. Underneath, a cream-colored floor-length gown clung to her frame. She looked all bone and sinew, as though she’d spent a lifetime on half rations and hard labor.
Ray waited for the business with the coats to finish so he could escort the group to the reception. The adrenaline had receded, and he felt the chill of the night
and the pull of that red neon exit sign. Meanwhile, Chip was piling his wife’s fur on Will, along with Maddie’s coat, and Will was turning to Gillian, quirking a questioning eyebrow at her.
“No coat.” Gillian raised her arms as if he couldn’t see what was obvious.
“Ah, must be all that New York air.” Will released one arm from around the coats to make a muscle. “Thickened your blood.”
“It’s not my blood, Wilson; it’s my cold, cold heart.”
Ray’s glance swiveled to her. A sudden awareness, keen and interested. She’d surprised him again.
Davenport just chuckled. But it was an embarrassed, did-I-hear-that-right kind of laugh. He cleared his throat. “Call me Will, please.”
“All right . . . Will.”
“Well . . .” He lifted the outerwear as if that were the signal to move, then left, presumably to stash them in the coatroom.
“What a night,” Chip said to no one in particular.
“Mr. Gray.” Carlson stuck out his hand. “Ron Carlson. Carleco Security. The museum hired us to beef up security tonight.”
Chip Gray shook Carlson’s hand. “Thank you for the rescue out there.”
“No problem. We’ve got everything under control inside. Museum security guards at all the entrances—they’re the ones in uniform. My own people are plainclothes and will be floating, mixing with the crowd. And, of course, the metal detector. I’m afraid you’ll have to go through it like the rest.”
“Of course,” Chip said. “My wife, Genevra.” He turned to the other two women. “My granddaughter, Gillian, and her assistant, Madeleine Crane.”
Carlson acknowledged the two women with a nod, and Gillian extended a long-fingered, delicate hand, the one that had beckoned in the photograph. The sight of the fingers, now moving and alive, sent an unnatural shiver through Ray.
“You’ve met Ray,” Carlson said.
She glanced at him, swift but intense. A reading more than a glance. “Yes,” she said.
Will returned from stashing the coats, and Genevra Gray turned her hard, pointed gaze on him. “Will, can’t you do something about that mob outside?”
Will looked embarrassed. “The police are out there. Can’t do much more than that. Freedom of speech and all.”
Genevra sniffed.
Gillian leaned over to Will. “My grandmother isn’t a big fan of the Constitution.”
“I heard that,” Genevra snapped.
“Never mind.” Will clapped his hands and smiled, though Ray thought he still looked uneasy. Well, why wouldn’t he? He had a lot riding on the night. “You’re here; you’re safe.” He winked. “And the champagne is suitably chilled.” He gestured for them to precede him. “Shall we?”
The group moved away, and Ray followed, watching intently but from a discreet distance. He wasn’t part of the show, just the watchdog.
The Grays ignored him, but their companion hung back.
“Hey, good-looking. You gonna follow us around?”
He spared a fast look at the assistant, then returned his gaze to Gillian and her entourage. “That’s what they pay me for.”
She slid an arm through his. “Good. I like those decorative touches.”
He disengaged himself, but if she recognized the hint, she didn’t take it.
“I’m Crane. Madeleine Crane. Maddie.”
“Nice to meet you, Maddie.” He was professionally polite. No point in alienating anyone until he had to.
He followed Gillian to the party area. Davenport snagged glasses, handed them around. Word quickly spread, and soon the Grays were surrounded by a small crowd again. But it was made up of overfed men with golf course tans and their brittle wives, so he wasn’t nearly as anxious as he’d been outside. He took up a post where he could keep an eye on Gillian’s admirers.
“Drink?” Maddie grabbed two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter and held one out to him. He saw it out of the corner of his eye, his gaze solid on the crowd.
“No, thanks.”
She shrugged, sipped one, held on to the other.
“Name?”
“Ray.”
“Not much for the small talk, are you, Ray?”
He didn’t answer.
“But you’re cute. You know that, don’t you? All dressed up in your little monkey suit with your earpiece and gun.”
He slid a sideways glance over to her. She was laughing at him. Well, at least this one didn’t look like she’d fall apart if he breathed on her. She looked like she’d survive a gale-force wind.
“Down, girl. I’m working.”
“You know what they say about work . . . and dullness.”
He didn’t respond, hoping silence would send her away.
She threw him a sly, knowing look. “Well, I guess there’s plenty of time to swap stories.” She ran a finger down his arm by way of good-bye, then drifted toward Gillian.
Maddie slunk into the circle beside her friend. She was a head taller than Gray and had to lean over to whisper in her ear. Gillian looked up, her eyes landing square on him. She laughed.
He didn’t move. Just met her gaze head-on.
Come and get me, she’d said.
Not on his watch.
5
The Gray Visual Arts Center was built around a glassed-in central lobby that was marble-floored and softly lit. A high ceiling gave it a cool, lofty feel, and a wide marble staircase leading up to the second floor gave it sweep and depth. Exhibit rooms branched off the lobby’s outer rim, each with discreet gold labels: the WINSTON PARKER SCULPTURE GARDEN; the DAVID AND ANNETTE MILLMAN CONTEMPORARY WING. Above the contemporary wing a banner touted VIOLENCE AND MEDIA: WE ARE WHAT WE WATCH. Works by five artists were listed, along with Dead Shots by Gillian Gray.
A half circle of people had formed in the exhibit room, with Gillian in the center. Around them, nine of Gillian’s huge photographs showed grisly death in a variety of guises, all located in what critics were fond of calling “jarring banality.” Over her shoulder, Kitchen in Subur-bia hung potent and threatening, though the women surrounding her didn’t seem to notice.
“Your work is so . . . interesting,” a woman in red satin said.
“Fascinating,” said someone in gold.
The various shades of the evening gowns blurred like a rainbow on an oil slick, and a picture framed itself in Gillian’s head: the group scattered, movement distorting the shapes into streaks of color.
Gillian smiled, egging them on. “Unpleasant . . . but in a nice way.”
“Exactly,” the woman in gray said eagerly.
The embarrassed silence that followed was interrupted by a server with a tray of champagne. The group helped themselves, and the waitress, a young woman, sidled close to Gillian.
“We’re not supposed to talk to the guests,” she said softly. “I hope you don’t mind.” Her brown hair was pulled into a tight ponytail, stretching the skin on her forehead like a botched Botox job. She looked like she was in her late twenties, maybe a little younger. Gillian’s age.
“Of course not,” Gillian said, relieved to talk to someone real.
“I’m a huge admirer of your work.”
“Thank you. Fellow photographer?”
She blushed. Shook her head. “An artist in my own small way.”
“Good for you,” Gillian said. “And good luck.”
“Thanks.” She hefted the tray. “Better get rid of these.” She moved off, and Gillian looked for a way to retreat.
But she was trapped by the evening gowns. The hair-spray and the perfume. Lips mouthing the same questions she’d heard a thousand times. “How does such a small, feminine woman come up with such awful things?” “How do you manage all the details?” “Where do you get your ideas?”
She pulled out her stock answers.
“I don’t know how I think of these things.”
“I hire people to manage the details.”
“I don’t know where my ideas come from.”
&nb
sp; But of course, that was the public lie. She knew exactly how she could think of awful things. They’d been in her head since she was seven and found the bloodied, battered body of her mother. She glanced at the faces around her, but his face wasn’t there. In the crowd, she didn’t hear his voice. But in her head, it was always there.
Tell, and I’ll do the same to you.
He was a gorilla in her imagination. Big, dark, hovering. He growled low in his throat. “Don’t tell.” The words came out of his mouth like snakes and frogs in the fairy tale. They boomed in her memory, deep and ominous and distorted. “Don’t tell,” they snarled, “or I’ll come back and do the same to you.”
His face was always obscured, a black shadow surrounded by mountains of shoulders. But his hands, those she could see. She was small, and his hands were close to her face. They were smeared with red. With blood.
He’d cast a spell on her, a wicked, evil spell. Her throat had dried up tight. She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. Then, in all that silence and stillness, his massive arm had shifted like a turnstile and pushed her out of the way. She fell. Tumbled like Alice, down, down, down. And he lumbered away, a thick, giant beast.
The memory took hold of her now, making the museum and the reception disappear into a mist. She let it come. Took the rest of the journey.
Watched in her mind as the intruder left. Suddenly, she was free. Free to run toward her house. To scream for the one person who meant safety and shelter.
Mommy!!! Mommy!!!
The screen door slammed as she pounded inside.
Mommy!
The sound of her heart was huge in her ears, the hammering frightening.
How funny for Mommy to be lying on the kitchen floor. Not funny ha-ha, but scary funny. She was on her back. The floor was wet all around her. Red and dark and wet. A knife lay in the muck. Her mother’s eyes were wide-open, but she didn’t see her little girl. She didn’t turn her head when Gillian shook her. Her pretty dress with the pink flowers and the green ribbon was pushed to her waist. She had no panties on. Gillian felt shaky and strange to see what her mommy looked like down there. She lowered the dress. Her hands were now red, too.
Dead Shot Page 2